They Came at Night
by Seriously Sam
Summary: There was a rustle, a bang, a crunch of leaves. They were noises that made John go outside with a gun. What he didn't think about was what was outside was trying to get in to his two sleeping boys.
1. Brass Tacks

Title - They Came at Night

Summary - There was a rustle, a bang, a crunch of leaves. They were noises that made John go outside with a gun. What he didn't think about was what was outside was trying to get in to his two sleeping boys.

_Part of __**'The Dark Horse'**__ series_

**"They Came at Night"**

**"Chapter One: Brass Tacks"**

After years of listening, John grew attuned to the softest of noises. A pin could drop at the other end of the backwoods cabin at which they were staying; and John would jerk awake, grab a gun, and find the noise within ten seconds flat. He couldn't afford a mistake when it came to noises. He couldn't just brush it off as the wind or the house settling. Sure 98% of the noises he heard at night were nothing to take notice of, but there was that slim change that _something_ caused those noises.

This time the noise started out as rustling. Anybody else would have assumed it was merely leaves blowing about - it was the heart of autumn. Except John refused to take that risk when his boys were just in the other room sleeping peacefully. His gun always lay beneath his pillow at night. He needed to have it close for easy access. The hunk of metal was his security blanket - a screwed up sort of security blanket. Checking the clip to make sure it was full, he settled the bullets efficiently. He then eased off the bed.

Check the perimeter.

The salt lines were still in place. The windows were closed and latched. The doors were locked. It was secure. Cautiously, John peered out the window in the living area, the musty curtain clenched in his hand. It was pitch black outside. John scanned the yard looking for shadows or glowing eyes. There were none.

That's when John walked towards the boys' room. Peeking inside, the boys were sound asleep in the queen-sized bed. Sam was buried underneath the covers. The top of his messy head and a lone foot was all that could be seen of the seven-year-old. Dean, on the other hand, was clearly seen. The kid's chest and shoulders were uncovered. His limbs were sprawled across the bed, one arm draped lazily over his little brother's stomach. John strained his ears to hear his sons' small puffs of air.

That's when the bang sounded. It sounded as though a shutter collided with the house. It was close, and it had stirred Dean awake. The kid looked at him with blurry eyes, a hand rising to his face to wipe the sleep away from his eyes.

"Go back to bed, Dude," whispered John. "I'm going outside to check it out."

Closing the door with a soft snap, John made his way to the small kitchenette. Rummaging through the cabinets, he searched quickly for the salt. He snatched up the container and laid a thick line outside the boys' bedroom. Just in case there _was_ something lurking out in the dark.

Then, he pulled on his old boots and shrugged on his leather jacket. Grabbing the keys off the coffee table, John shoved them into the pocket of his sweatpants. He grabbed a flashlight, a bottle of holy water, and an extra clip of iron bullets. Better to be prepared even if there was nothing there - better safe than sorry was the motto of his life.

The brisk autumn air woke him completely as he stepped out the front door, avoiding the salt line. His gun was drawn out in front of him. He waited on the porch for a minute just surveying to give his eyes time to adjust to the darkness. The only sounds that could be heard were the chirps of crickets and hoots of owls. Taking a small step forward, John slowly descended the couple porch steps.

That's when it happened. Crunching could be heard from the right. It was the sound of boots smashing leaves. He jerked towards the right, flicking the safety off in one fluid movement. Shoulders squared, gun clenched in both hands, John frantically searched the area with his eyes. No movement was detected.

Then, the wind picked up. Large gusts of wind that made the leaves whirl and dance in midair. The porch lights flickered on and off. The Impala roared to life, the radio blasting an old Johnny Cash song: _Their brands were still on fire and their hooves were made of steel_.The combination of bright lights from the car and the leaves literally making a sandstorm blinded John temporarily. The porch lights died instantly as the trees swayed dangerously. They bent and twisted, and John was convinced that they would snap in half. The radio started to crackle, Cash's words filled with static: _For he saw the Riders coming hard and he heard their mournful cry_. That's when the static overtook completely and the words were no longer pulsating through the night air.

A gust of wind shoved John backwards into the side of the house. The gun fell from his grasp, making a loud _clunk!_ as it smashed onto the wooden boards. John fought against the invisible binds that kept him pinned against the house but to no avail. He grunted as he strained his muscles to break free.

Then John saw the culprits. There were three of them - two men and a woman. The flying leaves parted as they walked through the bits of nature as though they owned the very earth they walked upon. They paid no attention to John as they climbed the stairs and made their way towards the front door. The woman twisted the knob and opened it as if it had never been locked.

The taller of the two men raised his hand and the wind howled louder than John thought possible. He let out a strangled cry as he watched the salt line waste away into the storm of leaves. The three disappeared into the cabin as John's screams filled the night air. He only hoped it was enough of a warning to get Dean's attention, to warn his son of the impending danger.

As the door slammed shut, John fell onto the porch in a heap. The lights of the Impala ceased to shine, the static no longer vibrated through the air, and the leaves lay on the ground as though they had always been there. Scrambling up, he made his way to the front door and twisted the doorknob. It was locked. John forced all of his weight into the wood, but it wouldn't budge. His shoulder rammed into the door again but the frame wouldn't give. Stepping back, he tried to kick the door down but was unable to even make a dent.

John stopped cold when he heard his eldest screaming. The words were incoherent, but he could tell Dean's voice from a mile away. Then, he heard the sobbing cries of Sammy. The bastards had his children. They had _his_ boys.

A lump formed in John's throat as his insides twisted together. He could hear his ragged breathing, could feel his heart pounding wildly in his ears. His boys - his _babies _- were going to die. His knees felt weak, his hands shaking. The bitter taste of bile coated his throat as his mouth watered. He had to do something. He had to save his sons.

"No!"

He was only vaguely aware of the tears pouring down his face. His fists unsteadily pounded on the wood with fervor. He ignored the pain in his hands, ignored the blood pouring from his split knuckles. All that mattered was getting inside the cabin to his sons, to save them from certain death.

Something flashed across the window. John abandoned the door to look through the glass. The taller of the two men was tying his oldest to a chair with an old piece of rope. John hadn't seen Dean look so scared and small for years - not since the days after Mary had perished in their home. His face was stark white, eyes wide with fear. His normally brave eleven-year-old was reduced to tears as his body shook with emotion and his arms weakly tried to break the bonds that were keeping him still.

John pounded on the window in an attempt to calm Dean down in order to get his head back in the game. With two sharp raps, Dean's head snapped to the window. John didn't need to hear the muffled scream to know what his son was trying to communicate. _Dad_. A word that was not acknowledging his presence or a cry for help. No, the name was Dean acknowledging he trusted his father to help them, to save them.

Then, with a wave of the hand from the captor, the musty curtains snapped shut. Fear and anger nearly suffocated him as he marched to the trunk of the Impala. He was a man on a mission, and he was determined to get his boys out of that cabin alive. Out of all the weapons and survival kits, John was pissed that he didn't have one axe or some large weapon that could tear through a wooden door. His father was big on survival and always made sure John had adequate supplies for all situations. Except, his father never supplied him with hacking weapons. After this was over, John vowed he'd always carry an axe in the trunk.

A demon - demons. That was what John thought they were dealing with. What other kind of monster could display such abilities? A shotgun filled with rock salt, holy water, and an iron blade were his weapons of choice. He didn't know exactly how he was going to break through the barriers into the house, but that didn't matter. He'd get in one way or another - of that much he was sure.

What he couldn't figure out was why Dean and Sammy? Why would the demons separate the three of them? Surely, if the demons wanted anybody, it would be John. He'd sent a few demons packing down to the pit in his time as a hunter of all things supernatural. But Dean and Sammy? They knew next to nothing on the topic. John wanted to keep them in the dark about demons as much as possible, didn't want them involved with exorcisms or their twisted ways. He feared that a demon was behind Mary's death and that meant there was no way in holy hell that John was letting his boys near demons if he could help it.

So the fact that demons - if they were indeed demons - had taken his sons hostage was more than a little unsettling. They went straight for the boys, immediately separated them into different rooms. They were after something that they thought only the boys knew or would be willing to tell.

The cabin belonged to Jefferson Kerr, a hunting associate that Daniel Elkins introduced John to years ago. Jefferson was a big paramilitary type guy who owned hunting cabins all across the country. A blue blood turned hunter for reasons no one seemed to understand. John didn't question it, rarely questioned anything having to do with fellow hunters' pasts. It really didn't matter as long as they were fighting on the same side.

John wanted nothing more than to contact Jefferson and find another way into the house - perhaps there was some underground tunnel that led to the basement. If there was one, John wouldn't be the least surprised. Not only was Jefferson big on hunting, he was big on secret passages. Paranoia was the culprit. Jim Murphy told John that Jefferson never wanted to be ambushed and trapped inside one of his cabins. So, he hid at least two tunnels or passageways in every cabin and house he owned. If John could find one, he could save his boys and send those sonsofbitches back to where they belong.

John was all for escape routes. In the hunting business, there was a more than a likely chance of shit hitting the fan. He would always stake out a place, find ways to get out. He rarely ever went in blind. Except, John didn't know where to even start to look for a secret passageway. He would kill to have a phone.

As John walked around the house looking for anything that might be fake or misleading, he couldn't decide if it was a good thing or a bad thing that the house was so quiet. The silence was unbearable as flashes of his sons dead on the floor burned his eyelids. If anything happened to either one of the boys, John knew he'd never make it. Losing Mary was painful enough, but to lose Dean or Sammy would just be unbearable. They were so young, so sweet, and so innocent.

His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest as he thoroughly searched for a hidden passage into the hunting cabin. He would leave no stone unturned until he got into the damn place. That's when he saw it, a gleam of metal shining behind two bushes in the moonlight. Pushing the branches aside, John saw a small wooden door in the earth. He grabbed the metal handle and yanked it upwards to reveal a ladder leading into the soil.

John flipped his flashlight on as he descended the ladder. There was a long hallway that went on for about five minutes before a bomb shelter-esque room appeared. It looked like it was built during the Cold War with shelves of canned food, a tiny cot, and some other essentials of living. He'd been in one of these shelters before in his old high school. He remembered skipping out of a prep rally with Patty Davidson, sneaking off to the basement, and finding the shelter. He was seventeen at the time.

Moving on, John walked through another small passageway until there was an abrupt stop. There was just a wall with nothing to the right or the left. Shining the flashlight upwards, John spotted a small trapdoor directly above him. There was no way he could reach the door unless there was a ladder or stairs. John swore under his breath. The light danced on the three walls looking for a lever, _something_ that would allow him a way to get to the freakin' door. The wall to the left had some stones protruding out like a rock wall. Placing the flashlight between his teeth, John carefully climbed the wall. He hadn't done anything like this since basic training for the Marines.

Once he was close enough to the ceiling, his jaw throbbing, he grabbed the metal handle and pushed up. Hauling himself out of the passageway, John was in a small room. He could only assume it was the basement. With the flashlight in hand, he glided the light through the room to look for the stairs. He spotted them almost instantly. Taking off in a sprint, John took the stairs two at a time as quietly as he possibly could.

Pushing the door open, gun out, John spotted his eldest immediately. Dean was gagged and tied to a chair from the dining room. Red tear tracks ran down his pale face. His wrists looked red under the twisted cords. His chest was heaving rapidly, resignation written clearly across his face. John took a step forward, the floorboard creaking beneath his boot. Dean's head snapped up, green eyes panicked. With one look at his father, relief washed over the kid's face.

Author's Notes - Here's the next story in the series. I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. The last chapter of The Dark Horse will be out soon. Big thanks to Shannon for editing this piece. I wrote it in about two sittings, because I got so excited about this story. Thanks for reading and please leave a little something.


	2. Smoke and Mirrors

**"They Came at Night"**

**"Chapter Two: Smoke and Mirrors"**

_Thump!_

_ Clank!_

Sam jerked awake, sleep still clouding his mind as he stiffened at the noises. The mattress shifted as Dean eased off the bed. Blinking blurrily, Sam stared hard at his big brother while rubbing away the sleep that crusted together in the corners of his eyes. Dean didn't look at him, didn't meet the questioning stare. That's when the windstorm started. The cabin seemed to sift ever so slightly from the force of the swirling wind outside. It creaked and strained, the windows sounded as though they were going to crack. Then, the brothers froze when the screaming of their father rang through the house.

"_Dean_!" Sam hissed as his muscles jerked to attention.

Within two seconds, Sam's hands were wrapped tightly around Dean's arm with fingernails making tiny crescents in the older boy's arm. His chest was flush against his brother's side as he fumbled to unfold his legs off the bed to stand with Dean. Dean was pulling Sam to the other side of the bedside table where a shotgun was propped up against the piece of furniture. Sam's grip didn't loosen, however, as his brother awkwardly tried to brace the gun in his arms.

The door to the bedroom flung open, and Sam tried to bury himself into his big brother when the three strangers appeared in the doorway. Sam's fingers curled into Dean's arm, his nails digging into his brother's flesh painfully. He watched with wide eyes as his big brother flinched but kept all of his attention on the threats that had just entered their bedroom. In that moment, Sam had never seen his brother look so much like his father before.

The shotgun flew out of Dean's grasp and collided with the wall before he could get a shot off. Dean tried to push his younger brother behind him as much as possible. Sam sniffed and gasped, his hazel eyes flying from the woman to the two men to his brother. There was unwavering faith in Dean that he would get the two of them out of the situation. The thought pounded in Sam's head as he tried to keep himself calm. It didn't work, because he could taste salty tears in the corner of his mouth. Where was his dad when they need him?

One of the men stepped forward, grabbed Dean by the arm, and hauled him forward roughly. Dean hollered a string of obscene words as he struggled against the man's painful grip. Sam screamed out a pathetic sob and leapt towards the man in order to try to save his brother. His muscles froze; however, and his feet rooted themselves into the ground. He hollered for his brother through gasping tears as the other man stepped forward to block his view from the man dragging his shouting brother out of the bedroom.

Sam barely registered being tugged and pushed into a chair in the center of the room. Rope was tied tautly around his wrists and ankles. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, threatening to break out any second. Dean's screams ceased as fear wound its way through Sam's body. The man who took his brother away walked through the bedroom door and snapped it shut behind him. Sam was all alone with the captors without knowing what happened to his dad or brother.

Sam squirmed as the ropes cut into his wrists tied down to the arms of a wooden chair. Through watery eyes, he intently watched his captors peering at him, studying him like some caged animal at the zoo. Never before had he so desperately wanted his dad and Dean. As the tears streamed down his face and his body shook with silent sobs, Sam couldn't help but feel shame. _Dean_ wouldn't have cried. _Dean_ would have been brave. _Dean_ wouldn't have let these strangers tie him up.

"You're sure he's one of them?" the lone female asked.

"Positive. There is no doubt," the men who took Dean away replied calmly. "Samuel Winchester, age seven, born in May of '83, Azazel caught in the act."

"Not to mention a son of a hunter," the other man interjected.

"Out of all the subjects this time, the Winchesters were the only ones to become players."

"So?"

"So, he's the favorite like all the other children who stumbled into the hunting world this way," the woman said softly. "He'll be the smartest, the best trained… yadda yadda."

"The question is: what did Azazel _do_ to these kids?"

Panting hard, Sam tried to block out their words. There was nothing wrong with him. They were lying. Nobody did anything to him or anyone else. Closing his eyes tightly, he felt the hot tears rolling down his flushed cheeks. He tried to think of a lullaby to sing, to calm him down. His father would always pull him close to his chest and hum some old folk song of Johnny Cash or Chet Atkins whenever he was sick or upset. The only song that sprung to mind, however, was Eagles of Death Metal. They were hardly a band that could put his mind at ease when he was tied to a chair, alone, and terrified out of his mind.

"Baal, he's scared," the woman whispered. "Ease him, all right?"

A rough hand touched Sam's cheek causing the kid to flinch back. His head collided with the back of the chair, eyes snapped open, and a strangled sob escaped his lips. The woman and the man who dealt with Dean stood back and watched the scene unfold curiously. The other man - Baal - reached forward again. This time, Sam was prepared.

His teeth bared as he snapped his head forward like an angry turtle. He bit down as hard as he could on the man's hand but didn't receive a response. The guy looked merely annoyed and not in any pain whatsoever. Sam tried to bit down harder, his jaw throbbing painfully from the strain. Pulling back, Sam saw his bite mark on the man's hand. A little spot of blood was smeared on the skin. It wasn't the victory Sam was expecting, the ones that were seen in the movies. The man simply looked down at the hand as the other adults chuckled softly. It was all a joke to them.

The hand reached forward again. This time, the fingers gripped Sam by the chin and nails dug into his cheeks. The other hand found its way onto Sam's forehead. Suddenly, his whole body went numb. His muscles relaxed and he stopped struggling against the binds, the hand, everything. His head felt heavy but empty at the same time. Sam couldn't explain it.

"Ronove," the woman said as her head inclined to the child.

The new man moved forward as Baal backed away. Ronove knelt down beside the child. Sam's mind was screaming to fight the man, to struggle against the binds, but he couldn't get his body to cooperate. His eyelids drooped, his heart beating steadily, and he felt completely at peace with the world. All the fear and anxiety he felt before had seeped out of his skin. The man named Ronove pulled out a knife and ran the blade up the kid's arm. Sam barely felt the cut. There was only a tinge of pressure.

The blood rolled down his pale arm and dripped into a bowl with symbols etched around the inside and outside. The man named Baal stood in front of Sam; his hand glided over the gash and it disappeared almost instantly. All that was left was a blood smear.

"Is he marked?" the woman demanded impatiently.

"Yes," Ronove replied, "Azazel marked him."

"You're positive?"

Sam glanced over towards the man who peered into the bowl of blood intently. There was a grave frown etched upon his face as his eyes flickered up to stare at the young child. Blue eyes disappeared as a cloud of black overtook and a hiss much like that of a cat escaped his thin lips. Sam had never met a demon before, never seen into the soul of one. He heard his father talk about them to Dean, heard the tales of hunting that John always seemed to tell his oldest but not his youngest.

"He's different from the others," Ronove spoke sharply as his eyes returned to normal.

"What do you mean he's different?" ordered Baal.

"His blood's different than the others…"

"What are you talking about?" the girl snapped. "How?"

Ronove extended the bowl towards the female without taking his eyes off the boy tied to the chair. Sam stared back unblinkingly. His mouth felt dry, his insides twisted. It only lasted seconds before the feeling disappeared and calmness overtook him once more. He felt safe again as he heard his father humming some sort of old folk song in his head. It was as though one of the people - _demons_ - were purposely trying to draw his attention elsewhere. They had gotten into his head, poked around inside, and found his ultimate source of comfort - his strong, brave father who could protect their family from anything.

"What is it, Abaddon?" a male voice demanded, but Sam couldn't really tell who was talking anymore.

"He's the one Azazel's been waiting for," the female's voice was fuzzy as the room became unfocused.

"_The_ one? Are you positive?"

"I'd bet my life on it." The response sounded so far away. "There are ways for us to find out… all of which are too dangerous to fool around with as of yet."

There were footfalls in the distance, floorboards creaking. The low drawl from the other room of someone familiar wafted into his ears. Quiet sobs, rustling, shuffling, a settling of bullets in a gun. Suddenly there was a smooth hand brushing his hair off his forehead. Everything seemed to slip from Sam's mind. Then he was falling, falling into a dark pit. Memories seemed to slip from his mind. The faces of the three strangers seemed to melt together in a swirl of skin tones and distorted features. Then there was just a light - a blinding white light that overtook his vision.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting in the grass outside of a big house with a twisted, dead-looking tree. There was a woman standing by the tree - long legs and wavy blonde hair. She turned to look at him, piercing green eyes burning into him. He thought maybe he knew her somehow, someone that Dad knew or maybe a teacher he had at one point at some nameless school. She looked so familiar, but Sam just couldn't place her which was odd since his contact with girls was very limited. He could feel his heart pounding in his ears and his mouth was as dry as the desert.

"Sammy," she whispered as she inched forward.

"Get away," blurted Sam as he scrambled backwards on the prickly grass. "I want my dad and brother!"

He backed up into a white fence and the woman just knelt down in front of him. She was so close that he could count the array of freckles that littered her nose and cheeks. Her face was so familiar - she looked so much like his big brother. His throat seemed to close at that thought. Memories of an old photo tucked away in his father's wallet popped to mind - a picture of his dad and his mom all smiles and bright. Except, this blonde woman couldn't be his mother, because his mother was dead.

"Mom?" he squeaked.

All of his preconceived notions told him that this was all impossible. His mother was dead, perhaps an angel up in heaven. There was no possible way she could be in front of him, so full of life. The lessons of a child raised by a hunter started to take its toll. A ghost? A shape shifter of sorts? A demon? What could this creature in front of him possibly be?

"I'm none of those things, Sammy," she said with a voice thick and creamy like honey and molasses.

Sam tried to remember what sort of monsters could read minds. His dad and Dean were never much for telling him about things that dealt with the supernatural. They liked to keep in him the dark, liked to protect him from things that he couldn't comprehend. Except, Sam could comprehend them, could handle them.

"Are you an angel?" whispered Sam in a voice fit for a small child.

"No, Darling, I'm not an angel."

Disappointment set in immediately. He always envisioned his mother with white wings and surrounded in light to compliment her blonde curls. Pastor Jim said that if anyone deserved to go to Heaven and be in the warm, welcoming arms of God that his mother would be first in line.

"You're asleep, Sammy. You're dreaming."

"So you're not real?" he deduced with a frown etching into his forehead.

"Just because this is a dream doesn't mean this isn't real."

That logic made no sense in a stubborn seven-year-old mind. Dreams were fake. Reality was real. That's what Daddy had told him. Dreams weren't real. Nightmares weren't real. The things that one saw when awake were real. The two couldn't blur together.

"Dreams aren't real," he spoke up bravely in a way that he thought only Dean would have.

She laughed, a smile expanding broadly on her face. Her laughter sounded a lot like Daddy's laugh - full of gusto that comes directly from the belly. Her smile was like the sun, bright and blinding.

"Sammy, will you do me a favor?"

Sam wanted to say no and kick her away from him so he could find his brother or dad. That didn't happen though because he wasn't like his big brother. His dad always said that Sam didn't have a mean bone in his body. So instead, Sam just nodded his head as his fingers dug into the earth beneath him.

"Always be true to yourself," she whispered gently. "Protect your dad and your brother. You mean everything to them."

A pale, freckled hand reached towards him and lightly brushed his cheek. Unconsciously, Sammy leaned into the touch because it was the softest touch he had ever felt. Daddy's hands were rough and calloused. Dean never touched his face like that.

"You're special, Sammy, and that means you're going to have to make the right choices."

_"SAMMY! PLEASE!"_ Sam could hear his father's voice shouting in the distance.

"Daddy?"

Sam jerked away from the bittersweet touch. A drop of liquid tickled his face. Reaching up a hand, Sam wiped away the drop from his cheek as another one fell onto him. Squinting up, the sky was blindingly blue and clear. Where had the water come from?

"Wake up, Darling," the female that looked so much like his mother encouraged. "Just remember that your dad and your brother love you. You have a choice. In life, choices are rarely wrong. You will be faced with a choice that will impact not only you, your dad, and your brother, but it will impact every single living and breathing creature."

"Why?"

"I can't answer that," she said sadly.

Her warm touch was on his forehead once more and an electric shock jolted through Sam's body. The house, the tree, the grass, the sky, the woman - they were all gone and replaced with darkness. The voices of his dad and brother grew louder. Sam felt his eyelids flickering and blobs of color faded in and out. Strong arms were wrapped around his body making him feel safe. Opening his eyes fully, Sammy saw a blurry version of his father hovering above him.

"Sammy!" he whispered in relief as a tear escaped his eye and fell onto Sam's face.

The last _real_ thing that Sam remembered was his father tucking him into bed with a peck on the forehead earlier that night. Dean told him a story once their dad left. It was a story about a brave knight who fought the dangers of the world to protect his family. The story was familiar, one that he heard a thousand times before. He remembered curling up against his big brother's side and falling asleep. The next thing he knew, he was dreaming of his mother in a yard he couldn't remember.

Author's Notes - Here's the next chapter of the story, I hope you enjoyed it. A lot of you were questioning about what happened with Sammy and now you know. The next chapter will be seen from Dean's POV. A side note about The Dark Horse, the final chapter is coming. For reasons unknown, it's been hell to write. It's nearly completed now so don't worry. Thank you to everyone who reviewed and a special thanks to Shannon for editing. Don't forget to leave a little something. I'm gonna reply to all reviews within the next day also.


	3. Skin of Teeth

**"They Came at Night"**

**"Chapter Three: Skin of Teeth"**

One minute, Dean had the shotgun secured in his arms with Sammy behind him and the next minute the shotgun hit the wall as three figures appear in the bedroom. The only thing that Dean could think about was how he was going to protect his kid brother from these people who had obviously either harmed or killed their dad. The latter thought brought a lump to form in Dean's throat and his chest to constrict tightly. He'd already lost his mom; he couldn't lose his dad and brother as well as well.

In a blur, strong arms wrapped themselves around Dean's chest and arm. He was being dragged out of the room as Sammy's sobs filled his ears. All Dean could do was shout out obscenities at the strangers while trying to send a few comforting phrases at Sammy.

The man pushed Dean down onto the hardwood floors. Flinging his hands out to catch his fall, he veered around as quickly as he could in order to attempt to overpower the kidnapper. His limbs felt like jell-o, and he couldn't rush the attacker for the life of him. His head felt heavy as everything seemed to slowly slip from his mind. The next thing Dean knew, he was sitting a wooden chair with his wrists and ankles tied down.

What Dean hated the most was that he was not in the same room as Sammy so he could protect him. His kid brother was all smiles and talked a mile a minute. He was a ray of sunshine in the Winchesters unusually dark lives. When their mother died, Dean felt like a part of him had died too. He remembered the heat of fire on his skin, the weight of baby Sammy in his arms as he rushed out of the house, the sound of the house exploding, the feeling of sorrow, the inability to speak for months. The only thing that made him happy and temporarily forget his mother was gone forever was Sammy. Now, his kid brother could be murdered in the next room and Dean would be unable to stop it.

Dean struggled against the bonds on his wrists. All he wanted was to break free and get Sammy out. He thought of all the escape exists in the house. There was the front door and the back door. There were lots of windows. The easiest way would be the back door, slip out and disappear into the wooded area behind the cabin. They would never be able to catch them in the woods this late at night.

There was a loud rapping noise. Dean jolted and whipped his head to the window. His father stood outside, teeth bared and chest heaving. All Dean could do was yell his father's name, to tell him he was all right. His captor waved his hand and the musty, old curtains to the window flung shut.

Dean whipped his gaze at the stranger. His mind was reeling. Was this guy a witch? A demon? What the hell was he? Suddenly, the man gagged Dean and left the room. He watched the stranger disappear into his and Sammy's bedroom.

Twisting and struggling, Dean did everything he could to break the bonds that held him to the chair. He could hear muffled talking emitting from the bedroom but could not discern the words that were being said. The thing that concerned Dean the most was that he could not hear Sammy's sobs any longer.

His wrists became raw as he struggled nonstop. They felt like they were on fire as droplets of crimson swelled up against the beige rope. It felt like an eternity of wiggling and the rope never gave once. Suddenly, the floorboards creaked, and Dean's head shot up. His father was there, alive and in the house with necessary hunting weapons. A calmness washed over Dean. They were saved.

His father knelt beside his son and quickly cut the binds on his wrists and ankles. Dean untied the gag and felt his bravado reentering him. They needed to get to Sammy before the unthinkable happened.

"Where's Sam?" asked his dad in a whisper.

"The bedroom."

"Are they with him or did they go somewhere else?"

"All three are in there. Dad… what are they?"

"Stay here."

He stood up and held the gun out in front of him as he inched towards the bedroom. Dean had failed to listen and followed his movements. In one swift kick, the door flew off its hinges and his father rushed the room. The strangers were gone. In the center of the room was Sammy tied to a chair and unconscious.

"Sam!" his dad screamed as he knelt down in front of his kid brother and untied the binds on his wrists.

Dean stepped forward, his breath hitching in his throat. His kid brother looked relatively unharmed. Except, there was a smear of blood on his forearm but there was no gash or sign of injury. Taking a tentative step forward, Dean stood next to his father and tried to keep his tears at bay.

"Come on, Sammy, wake up," Dean struggled to say.

His dad pulled Sammy into his arms and held the kid close to his chest. He was talking to his youngest in soft, murmuring tones. Dean fell to his knees, his hand reaching out and gripping his brother's tiny wrist.

"Sammy, please!" his dad screamed as he buried his head into Sam's tuff of chestnut hair.

Dean felt Sam's wrist twitch underneath his grasp. The kid moaned, his body struggling weakly against his father's death grip. Sammy opened his eyes and looked up at his father with confusion written clearly across his face.

"Sammy!" John cried as a tear escaped his eye.

His father put Dean and Sammy to bed. He walked around the room looking for anything out of place or different. The window was open to the bedroom, the curtains blowing in the brisk wind. That was how they escaped. Their father said to get a few hours of shuteye and then they were moving out. He had to make some phone calls.

Dean told his kid brother a story, because he didn't feel like falling asleep. As the story drowned on, Sammy's eyes slowly started to droop until he could no longer hold them open any longer. The steady rise and fall of his chest began. Small puffs of air escaped his thin lips. Dean listened to his brother sleep and the faint rumble of his father's voice in the other room. He was content.

A few hours later, his dad ambled into the boy's bedroom. He hauled Sammy into his arms and motioned for Dean to grab their bags and follow. Dean threw the bags into the trunk of the Impala while their father situated his kid brother into the backseat, trying his hardest not to wake the kid up. Dean slid into the back with Sammy while his dad took his usual spot in the driver's seat.

They drove the rest of the night. Soon enough, the sun started to creep up from the horizon. As the beams casted into the vehicle, Sammy slowly started to rise from his slumber. Sam sat up on the bench seat and inched towards his big brother. Naturally, Dean wrapped an arm around the kid and pulled him close to his chest. Nobody felt like talking.

Soon enough, his father took the Lincoln, Nebraska exit. Dean immediately knew where they were headed. Within another fifteen minutes, the Impala was barked outside a small bungalow. His father cut the engine, and Dean opened the car door and stepped out.

His father made his way around the car and placed a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder. He gave him a tight squeeze before reaching out for Sam. Sammy, despite being too big and too old to be carried, was wrapped in his father's strong arms in an instant. His face buried into his dad's leather jacket, his arms wrapped tightly around his father's neck. The small family made their way towards the house. Dean rang the doorbell and leaded against his father's side.

The door opened to reveal a tall man in nothing put sweatpants. His eyes squinted at the small family in front of him, a weary hand running through his buzz cut hair.

"I didn't know where else to go, Caleb," his father said softly.

Caleb Lyons stepped aside to allow the Winchesters to enter his small home. Over the years, Caleb had become the unofficial godfather to Dean and Sam. He was twenty-six years old, ran an underground arms dealership exclusively for hunters, and was rising in the hunting community as a force to be reckoned with. They had met Caleb through Pastor Jim, and John always said that the pastor was responsible for making men into the best hunters out there.

"What happened?" questioned Caleb.

Dean stood close to his father with his side flesh against his father. Both boys were skittish, scared, confused. John was more worried than he thought ever possible. The whole previous night made no sense to anyone involved. The demons had done something, that was evident, but what?

"We were attacked last night," explained John.

"Uh, yeah, I know, Pastor Jim called me bright and early at six o'clock this morning." Caleb shut the front door and rested his back against it. "Care to share with the class what exactly what down, Johnny?"

"I think they were demons."

Caleb sucked in a breath of air. Dean didn't know the specifics, but he knew that Caleb's older brother had been possessed by a demon and consequently died. The only reason he knew this was because one morning while staying with Caleb, he saw the guy's back shoulder blade. There was a weird symbol tattooed onto his skin. When Dean asked about it, Caleb had said it was so no bastard demon could possess him like his brother had been. They never talked about it again.

"What happened?"

"They locked me out of the house, tied Dean to a chair in the living room, and tied Sammy to a chair in the bedroom. They were more interested in Sammy than anyone else," John continued.

"What do you remember, Sammy?" Caleb directed his attention to the youngest one.

"Nottin'," he replied in a small voice. "I 'member the noises and Dean grabbing the shotgun and the men taking Dean away and the men tying me to the chair… then I 'member Dad holding me and the men were gone."

Caleb focused his attention back onto John, his eyebrows raised. Dean caught the look, and he would be damned if Caleb and his dad had a private, adult conversation. He deserved to know what was going on. The demons had gone after Sammy. That was all he needed to know to be involved.

John lowered Sammy to the ground. The kid stayed close to his dad, his back resting against his legs. He inched closer to Dean, his head reaching out and gripping his big brother's wrist. Dean allowed it.

"Sam, why don't you go watch some TV. Dean will go with you," suggested John.

"_Dad_…" Dean said adamantly, his gaze fierce.

"Dean, do as your told."

"I want to know what's going on. Please."

His father hesitated for a few seconds, his fingers running through Sammy's fine hair. Dean thought for a few minutes that he had won the battle, that his father would agree to allow him to be apart of the conversation.

"Dean, go with Sammy and watch TV."

With a nod, Dean led Sammy into the living room while Caleb and his dad disappeared into the kitchen. Dean allowed his kid brother to have possession of the remote, which he immediately found _Fraggle Rock _and settled into the show. His head rested tiredly on Dean's shoulder.

"Sammy," Dean spoke up as he wrapped an arm around the kid, "are you sure you don't remember anything from last night after they split us up?"

The kid looked up at his big brother, his eyes wide as saucers and his bottom lip securely locked between his teeth. Instantly, Dean knew that Sammy was keeping something from them.

"I-I saw Mom."

"_What_?"

"I was asleep in the chair and I had a dream about Mom and she was telling me about choices and told me to wake up and I could hear you and Daddy talking to me."

Dean felt a lump form in his throat at the mention of their mother. He missed her so much that sometimes it was simply unbearable.

"I don't mean in a dream, Sam. I meant do you remember anything when you were awake?" he steered the conversation away from the topic of their mother. He did not have the energy to answer Sam's string of fifty questions at the moment.

"No."

"Are you sure? I won't tell Dad. I promise."

Sam only shook his head and turned his attention back to the television. He dug himself into his big brother's side as though to escape. Dean only tightened his grip around his kid brother and stopped asking questions. He didn't want to upset the kid.

In the pit of Dean's stomach, he knew that something was not right. He knew that these demons, or whatever they were, were not through with their family just yet. It was almost as though they were doing recon like their dad would do before a hunt. They were gathering information. When they had a sufficient amount of information, they were going to strike. Dean had no doubt in his mind that when they did strike, they were striking hard and deadly.

His dad was not much of a demon hunter. He preferred ghosts and other kinds of creatures. Demons were more of Caleb and Bobby's cup of tea. They lived and breathed demon hunts. They talked about demons in hushed whispers and low tones. Dean didn't know much about demons except that they can't be killed. The best you can do his hope to trap 'em and send 'em packing back to hell. If you didn't have enough time for an exorcism, then you better run like hell itself was chasing you.

The end credits were playing after _Fraggle Rock_ when Caleb entered the living room. His dad did not follow. Caleb sat down next to Dean and rested his arm across the back of the couch.

"Where's my dad?" questioned Dean.

"He's callin' Bobby right now. I think you guys are going to spend a few days with him."

"Why?"

"Because I don't feel like babysitting you two brats right now," Caleb responded with a grin.

"What did you and my dad talk about?" pushed Dean.

"Like I'm going to tell you. Johnny would beat my ass."

Dean licked his lips and glanced up at Caleb with pleading eyes.

"I thought we were friends," Dean said flatly.

"I got fifteen years on you, Man," he responded and ruffled Dean's hair. "We're friends, but I pull rank and don't have to tell you shit."

Dean scowled and glanced over at his little brother who seemed oblivious to the conversation. He was watching the television in rapid fascination. Turning back to Caleb, he frowned.

"Is Sammy gonna be okay?"

"Of course, dude," Caleb responded. "Why are you so morbid all the time? You're eleven. Aren't you supposed to be a ray of sunshine and not a dark storm cloud?"

Shrugging his shoulders, Dean turned his attention to the television. He couldn't wait to be older and be let in on the adult conversations. He wanted answers that his dad felt fit to keep him out of. Not having the energy to fight for the answers, he settled into the couch and watched another episode of _Fraggle Rock_. Not even five minutes into the show did his eyelids feel heavy.

Author's Notes – I know I started this story a good two years ago, but I finally finished it. I stopped writing fanfiction for awhile, because I had a lot going on personally. Now, with some free time and being on break, I decided to get back into writing and finish old stories and start new ones. Hope you enjoyed. Happy Christmas and please leave a review.


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